


Pillow Talk

by YoursTruly (Lyscey)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual Infidelity, Cunnilingus, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, John's willing to experiment, M/M, Oral Sex, Sherlock doesn't know what he likes, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/pseuds/YoursTruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re laying in bed together, heads each pillowed on the other’s thighs, in the panting, loose-limbed aftermath of orgasm, when Sherlock says, “tell me about cunnilingus.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/gifts).



> Another Poppy prompt!  
> Poppy requested: John going down on a woman (my #1 John headcanon is that he is exceptionally enthusiastic about and skilled at this particular act), and Sherlock watching.
> 
> This ran away with me a bit... but it's got everything you asked for (and then some). I hope you like it! 
> 
> Unbeta'd. Sorry.

They’re laying in bed together, heads each pillowed on the other’s thighs, in the panting, loose-limbed aftermath of orgasm, when Sherlock says, “tell me about cunnilingus.”

John laughs. A sputtering bark born from being startled more than actual humor, but honestly, Sherlock’s non-sequiturs sometimes. “What?”

“I want to know about oral sex performed on a woman. I've never done it. It’s obviously different than fellatio, it would have to be, but what is it like?”

He sounds so disappointed to have discovered this gap in his knowledge, almost lost, and just so fucking _earnest_ John can’t help but chuckle. Sherlock’s chest is still flushed from the rather lengthy session of mutual oral sex they just had (hell, his cock isn't even fully flaccid), and he’s already on to any and every other possible permutation of this data. “Your pillow talk is shit,” John tells him.

That earns a full five second pause, during which John is sure he can hear gears grinding and whining in Sherlock’s head, before he replies, “the pillows are on the floor, John.”

“Never mind the actual pillows, Sherlock. The point I’m trying to make is, when you’re in bed with your lover after sex, it’s customary to talk about what you enjoyed about the act and say affectionate, reassuring things. It’s called ‘pillow talk’. People do it.”

“Oh. Do you require reassurance? Are you sexually satisfied? Are you comfortable with the level of consent we shared before we started?”

“Ugh, that’s worse.” Sighing, John rolls more onto his side so he can look up the plains and curves of Sherlock’s body to his face. “Alright, what do you want to know?”

“Everything.” The ‘Obviously’ is unspoken but heavily implied.

“Okay, but from what perspective? Technique? Sensory information? Sexual response? Unfortunately, if you want to know how it feels for a woman to receive oral sex, you’ll have to ask one.”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. One big, bony hand comes down to pet at the feathered hair behind John’s ear. “I’ll consider it. In the mean time, please begin with sensory information. I think that will help me reconstruct the experience in my mind more thoroughly as you describe the technique to me.”

“Well, that one’s the hardest to pin down. Everyone’s body chemistry is unique. Factors like age, hormone levels, diet... any number of things, really, can affect how our fluids smell and taste. There are a lot of subtle differences.”

“Be as general as you must for now. This is all theoretical anyway; I only need the basics.”

John pauses a moment to think. What exactly is this can of worms Sherlock’s brought him, and does he want to open it? He knows Sherlock came into his life essentially a virgin and believing himself to be gay, or at the very least homoromantic (although John’s fairly sure he’s closer to demisexual and panromantic, not that he would correct someone about their own sexuality or that it even matters considering how they've been going at it these last few months). Could Sherlock be questioning that now, wondering about all the virtues and sins of female bodies? He phrased it awfully clinically; perhaps he thinks he can glean something from John’s descriptions that’ll be useful on a case some day. According to him, everything’s bound to be eventually.  

Maybe it’s just innocent curiosity, maybe it’s something more, but either way Sherlock will keep asking or resort to unconventional methods of acquiring information if John doesn’t answer him. So, John starts simple: sound. He talks about the joy of feminine moaning, whimpering, sighing, and even screaming. Male moaning, particularly in a deep and rich voice like Sherlock’s, is satisfying and erotic, but there’s something about the high, soft sounds all the women he’s been with have made that shakes awake something primal in him. Then he tells Sherlock about smell and the dizzying effect female pheromones have always had on him. He’s heard a lot of men complain about it in his life, but he’ll never understand how anyone couldn’t love that perfect scent. It’s difficult to decide, of taste and feel, which is his absolute favorite. He’s always loved the taste so much there was one point in his life he might say he even felt physical cravings for it. Just the first hint of it on his tongue when he’s going down on a women has usually been enough to get him hard. The feel though: the thick, feminine slickness that no lubricant he’s ever tried with a man has even come close to. He could muse forever over they way it coats his lips and fingers and tongue.

There’s heavy silence in the room for moment and John opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to find Sherlock avidly watching his cock as it warms and plumps up on his thigh, right next to his partner’s face. He reaches down to adjust himself but Sherlock bats his hand away, then blows a warm, moist breath over John’s dick and smiles as it twitches. That’s probably the fastest he’s recovered since he was 25. Maybe he misses it more than he had thought.

“This is turning you on.”

“Of course I’m turned on. I’m naked in bed with my boyfriend talking about sex.”

“Not a sexual act we’ve ever done together. You were fantasizing, calling up sense memory and describing it to me. You got aroused thinking about eating pussy.”

Those words, while not actually that dirty in the context of John’s vocabulary, coming from Sherlock’s mouth make John’s cock jump again and fill out the rest of the way. Sherlock nuzzles his way further up John’s thigh to lick and nip at the shaft. When John reaches down again to thread his fingers in his lover’s hair, Sherlock doesn't try to stop him.

“Continue, John. I was promised an explanation of technique, and I have a feeling you’re qualified to give me a veritable dissertation.” Sherlock’s tongue slips out and traces the furls of John’s foreskin around the bulbous head, then takes the first inch or so in his mouth and rolls it up and down with his lips.

John gasps and has to fight not to buck his hips. “Jesus Christ, Sh- ah! That feels so good, baby.”

“Come on, John,” Sherlock says, lips moving right up against the sensitive place between hip crease and the root of the shaft. “Let’s hear it. Tell me all about making a woman come.”

John does. Sherlock doesn't speak again for around twenty minutes.

~*~

It’s a little more than a week, and many increasingly specific questions about cunnilingus, later that Molly Hooper slams her way into 221 Baker Street and stomps up the stairs, yelling all the while for a ‘tactless, juvinile, manipluative arsehole’ to show himself. The only one of those John knows is out at the moment and, it being the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday, he gets up to intercept Molly before the neighbors call the police.

She’s looking flushed and pretty in a blue linen skirt and camisole, her hair in a loose braid laid over her shoulder; must be taking advantage of the lovely, warm summer weather. It’s entirely inconsistent with the anger in her expression and the severe way she brandishes a fistful of rolled up printer paper in her right hand. She deflates a bit when John tells her Sherlock’s not in the flat, but determinedly asks him if she can wait.

“If I go home now, I’ll lose my momentum and talk myself out of yelling at him, and that can’t happen. He deserves to be yelled at, John.”

“I don’t really doubt that. What did he do,” John asks, moving aside to let her in.

Molly’s blush is immediate and blazing. It looks for a moment like she might lose her nerve, but then she straightens up and marches into the sitting room. “He sent me this email,” she says, waving the rumpled page in her little hand, “full of completely inappropriate, _untrue_ \- He has no idea! He- _Ugh_.” She grunts and drops down unceremoniously into Sherlock’s armchair, scowling up at John with her arms crossed over her chest and a hard pout. “He’s not as smart as he thinks he is.”

John’s trying not to smile. She’s obviously angry (probably righteously), but she reminds him so strongly of Sherlock in that moment and he’s just so bloody _charmed_ by it he’s ready to indulge her a lot farther that he should be. “Can I get you anything while you wait, Molly?”

“No, thank you. I've got to stay sharp for when Sherlock gets back. When I see him, I’m going to throttle him.” She wrings the sheet of printer paper in her two hands to demonstrate.

John would do more to soothe her, but Sherlock chooses that moment to step soundlessly into the flat and announce himself with: “Throttle whom?”

Molly jumps up from the chair and takes a few quick steps toward the door, where Sherlock and John are standing only a few feet from each other. “You! You… barmy bastard! What in bloody Hell would possess you to write me this? Who do you think you are?”

Sherlock, obviously knowing exactly what she’s referring to, has the good grace to stand still, stunned and blushing in the face of Molly’s wrath.

“Honestly, Sherlock, I don’t know what I’m more angry about: the inappropriate, personal nature of your questions or that fact that what you wanted was for me to ‘ask my more adventurous friends and contemporaries’ if they would be willing to answer them!”

John’s now pretty sure he knows what she’s referring to, too. He looks over at Sherlock again, who’s struggling to put on his usual aloof neutral expression. “Molly, I. I only meant that-”

“I know exactly what you meant! You meant what you always mean: that I’m shy, and mousey, and subdued. You meant that I’m submissive, juvenile, and undesirable. I’m practically sexless to you. It’s fine for you to think of me that way, God knows I haven’t found a way to dissuade you, but you've never been this subtle about it before. I've made my peace with the fact that you’re not attracted to me, but this… this implies you don’t see how anyone could be, and that I couldn't be willing, or even _enthusiastic_ , about indulging, if I could get any offers at all! You have turned me down, disappointed, and belittled me plenty over the years I've known you, but you have never made me feel ugly. Until now. So, let’s be clear: I am a sexual being. I am smart, and self aware. I am empowered by exploring and enacting my own sexual pleasure. I am sexual independent of whether you find me sexy. You dick.”

John has to shove his hands into his pockets to hold himself back from applauding. He’s never been more humbled, or aroused, by Molly Hooper in his life. He realizes he had been a little bit mesmerized by her during that little speech, and as he becomes more aware of the rest of the room two things become obvious: the stupid grin on his own face, and Sherlock’s attention drifting over to him, scanning and compiling like John’s a suspect in a particularly interesting crime. “What?”

“Hmm. Yes, excellent idea, John. I think that would be very enjoyable indeed,” Sherlock says, apropos of nothing, with a faint smile on his lips.

“My idea? This wasn’t my idea!”

“No, no, I sent the email on my own. I must admit I underestimated the emotions it would provoke. Totally my mistake, for which I sincerely apologize. The idea I’m referring to is the one slowly forming in your subconscious right now. The one about a fierce, wanton Molly Hooper in bed with us.”

Now it’s John’s turn to blush. Damn arousal indicators, and Sherlock’s ability to observe them, too. He opens his mouth to insist he’s doing no such thing (a lie) because he doesn't think Molly would appreciate being spoken about like a sex object after her tirade (the truth), but when he looks back to her face she seems… surprised? Perhaps a bit bemused, but not offended, and maybe even just a little bit intrigued.

He’s grasping for something to say when Sherlock speaks again. “We've talked about this a bit, John. This could work. Molly is trustworthy, discreet, likely to know her STI status and take proper precautions. Remember the conversations we've been having this week? Wouldn't that be fun?”

It’s not entirely untrue; they have talked about it. Mostly in cloaked terms: ‘sharing’, ‘openness’, ‘casual’. However, in John’s mind, they were doing it because Sherlock had never been with anyone else and John didn't want him to feel pressure to be perfect in the context of his very first romantic relationship. That last bit sounded a lot like he’s talking about watching John give Molly Hooper head.

“Yes, exactly,” Sherlock says, the damned mind reader. “Molly, thoughts?”

Molly’s indignation seems to come rushing back. She clenches her fists and firms up her stance. “You really think after everything I just said I still want to go to bed with you?”

“Me, no. But, John... Perhaps, if not all the way to bed, then sprawled out on our couch so John can pleasure you?”

Brown eyes that have turned mostly black and nearly saucer-sized dart over to meet John’s. Molly licks her lips and wipes her sweating palms on her thin skirt. “John?”

Those sense memories Sherlock had mused about last week are taking over his brain again. The best he can do is nod. Enthusiastically.

Molly, in a stroke of pure genius, reaches under her skirt to shimmy out her bikini-style panties and tosses them to Sherlock before kicking off her shoes, stepping lightly around both of them, past the coffee table, to lay elegantly on the low, leather couch, one foot flat on the cushions and the other dangling off the side with it’s toes planted on the wood floor. For a moment, which John is sure will be burned in her memory forever, she beams up at them while they gape slack-jawed at her.

Sherlock slams the door shut and throws the bolt, then grabs one end of the coffee table and jerks it off to the side so he can sit on the floor to watch the proceedings.

As John looks down at her he’s torn between a reverent exploration of her body and glutting himself on her pussy like a starving man. Instead he asks, “what do you like?”

“Slow at first, but not too gentle. Firm. Fingers. Sucking, but only on my clitoris. Thank you for asking.”

Her voice doesn’t waver, but her blush returns. Fuck, yes. At that point it’s a matter of instinct to go to his knees and crawl his way over and between her thighs. It’s also instinct that makes him shove his hands under her buttocks and pull her toward the edge of the cushions a little more, angling her hips up as he does it. He moves his hands to the insides of her spread thighs and squeezes until she groans and squirms. “Whenever you’re ready, Molly.”

She reaches down with both hands to ruck her skirt up around her waist, finally baring herself to him.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous.”

It is. Pink, delicate, and perfect, already moist and starting to open for him. He leans in to nuzzle her with the bridge of his nose and and she sighs happily. He flattens his tongue and gives her a solid lick, bottom to top, and she throws her head back and moans. He’s fairly certain he heard Sherlock moan too.

Yup, that’ll work.

John is so practiced at this, so good at it, he can mostly relax and enjoy the sensations, letting that primal part of him take over deciding what to do. The taste and smell of her are intoxicating and it’s not long before he’s moaning too, right up against her vulva, hopefully sending some lovely vibrations throughout. If the way she’s writhing and whimpering is any indication, he’s succeeding. Normally he wouldn't bother keeping his eyes open while giving oral, but he really wants to see Sherlock’s face. He’s not disappointed he looked.

Sherlock is fascinated. Not just by what John is doing, but by Molly’s every movement as well. She’s pulled the neck of her camisole down so she can grip and knead her breasts and Sherlock is watching her as if it’s the most ingenious thing she’s ever done. His eyes flow over her face, neck, and chest, taking in everything. Molly’s mewling cry when he pulls away from her makes John feel like he kicked a puppy, but it’s worth the lust-glazed look in Sherlock’s eyes when John asks him, “can you see?”

“Yes, mostly,” he replies, voice thick. He swallows and John thinks, ‘dear God, he’s actually salivating’.

Molly, her patience apparently exhausted, lifts her foot from the floor and plants her heel on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Better?”

Sherlock’s eyes go even wider when gets an unimpeded view of Molly’s pussy. He nods slowly and says, “don’t stop.” He’s still looking raptly between Molly’s legs, but John’s fairly certain that was meant for him.

John strokes her labia with his thumbs first, making sure Sherlock gets a good look at all the anatomy before he dives back in with his mouth. Molly keens above him and arches her back, trying to get even more pressure. He decides she’s ready for fingers.

“Open your mouth,” he says. They both do. John’s not sure whether to laugh or moan at that. He puts the pads of his first two fingers on Sherlock’s tongue to moisten them, then slips them inside Molly’s very ready vagina. She writhes and cries out, but he holds still until she’s adjusted to the little stretch. He looks over at Sherlock, who appears to be torn between fainting and wanking, before he bends down to give Molly back his mouth.

He alternates between short, gentle sucks and firm side-to-side strokes with a flat tongue. His nose is pressed into Molly’s short, downy pubic hair and he can smell her floral soap just underneath her natural scent, which is even stronger now that he’s got his fingers pistoning steadily in and out of her. Her moaning is taking on a desperate tone now. She’s not even bothering with her breasts anymore, just gripping the sofa cushions and trying not to grind her teeth.

“Ah! John, my- Your fingers, less _ssss…_ ”

She can’t finish the sentence, but John get’s it anyway. He stops his fingers at the second knuckle and feels around for only a few seconds before he finds her g-spot. He knows he’s found it because when he rubs back and forth over it with his fingertips she shudders and sobs. He scrapes the very edge of his front teeth over her clitoris, then soothes it with a long, hard suck and she shouts out his name as comes. Laying his tongue flat against her again and stilling his fingers inside her, he lets her ride out her orgasm and it’s rolling aftershocks against his mouth until she sags, boneless, into the cushions.

John’s barely taken a full breath before Sherlock practically pounces on him, kissing him hungrily. He lick’s John’s lips until he’s allowed into his mouth, then teases at John’s tongue until it slips against his own and he can suck on it. John’s immediately lost in it, reveling in the hedonism of sharing Molly’s scent and taste while Sherlock moans in enjoyment. It must be at least a minute before he remembers Molly laying on the sofa right in front of them.

He looks over and his cock throbs hard in his jeans as he takes in her lax form, rubbing at her breasts again and watching them avidly.

“Don’t mind me,” she says.

They don’t.


End file.
